While so many cry, three laugh, softly, ever so softly, so as to not be heard and found. They knew very well what was happening around them, and they had not caused it. They knew well where their place was, and they were set to change it. They knew they were right, but they decided to not say a word. The world around them was in chaos. Millions had died, and all who were left were torn apart, left grieving and shaking in a dark, cold, shattering reality. Worlds were at war, no one understanding exactly why it had started except for these three, who were children compared to the people who fought daily and died in battle. They were not carefree as children are known to be, though. These were teens, young adults who had a distinct way of thinking that set them so far apart from the rest of society. But now, as far as they were concerned, society could be blown to hell. And they would stand laughing. These children were still just that, children. But they thought at a high level, higher than most of the adults around them. Their insanity was wasted on games, giving them a calm shell to fool everyone. But now their minds were in overdrive, snickering at the idiocy and laughing at people as a group. The boy to the far right, if the three were looked upon from the front, held himself high, an easy grace leaving him straight upright, head lifted. A mass of light brown hair fell softly to his shoulders to frame his face, whisps and bangs hiding his clear blue eyes from immediate view. Green sunglasses slid down his nose, the blue eyes peering lightly beyond the frames. His outfit was plain, black pants that were ankle-cut, good black slip-on shoes, a white collar shirt, and a black jacket. It may have been devoid of color, but every piece contributed to his personality. The other boy, on the far left, hid his eyes behind dark and reflective sunglasses. His outfit was that of a very outdated ninja, black covering every part of his body except for his head. Darkened blackish brown hair fell past his shoulders to drape about, covering some of his back. The final person, a girl younger than the both of them, had a disturbingly pleasant grace in speech and movement that could be both seductive and naturally alluring. Her eyes were golden, a fertive yellow, her hair pure white with black streaks, all the tips a firey pink, the hair forever in a braid. Her outfit was a little more complex than the others, not revealing her nature and personality as easily as theirs did for them, thus needing more thought. Black combat boots were on her feet, adding an inch or two to her meager height, long dark blue jeans falling over the boots, an oversized red shirt covering her torso and slackening about her thin body. These three people understood what was expected of them, but they were fed up with obeying. They finally decided that the old saying was true; peace was permanent pre-hostility. Therefore, peace wasn't an objective. Not to these three specialists who stood grinning, watching, waiting patiently for their chance to advance to the next level. While the three were close friends, they of course led seperate lives, living in the same city but sometimes seeming so far away. They hung out like normal kids, going through school, passing notes to each other, yet only if spoken could they make a point clear. Each had a unique style of writing, but nothing that they could put on paper replaced the sound and pitch of their voices, each creating a melody, each having a rhythm, an absense of a true pattern, pressing buttons with unheard songs. Each had his own problems, similar in general, and varying down to the wire, shaping each one differently, molding each personality into something seemingly unwordly from the next, forming the look in their eyes and the expressions they carried on their faces. Each dressed differently, some to express, some to conceal. And each had a specialty that allowed them to consider world leadership. Because each had the idea, each was aware that the others could help. The well-dressed young man had a thoughtful mind, able to plan and strategize, being one of the brilliant flames that weren't interested in sharing thoughts. THe second was offset so much that he kept to himself when he could, though he seemed to speak to the girl when prodded. His somewhat wound nerves gave him a personality of fire but not passion, and this unknown advantage allowed for an edge, as he was an old-fashioned ninja-like boy who used swords and energy as opposed to the plasma beams and energy cannons. The girl was a chameleon in a world of war, being what she needed to be when she should be, in accordance to her own ideas and beliefs. She seemed to be good at everything, always learning, always acting, but keeping away as she thought she should. Independence was an unfortunate commemoration, a reminder that she stood alone with others beside her, trapped in a faceless crowd, a fact that always held her tongue. The three stood still and patient, and then the darkness around them settled, the sun disappearing and throwing eerie shadows about them before, without saying a word, began to walk away from the dead lamp post they had stood around. Now they all had homes to go to, to talk later where they were sure to not be heard. They each vanished, going their seperate ways and returning to their own different lives, to join again the next day.